Random Papers With Ink
by Ink On Paper
Summary: This is a place where I shall keep my drabbles . . . . . Please read despite the vague summery.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I think I'm going put random bits here, drabbles that fit into nothing. . . . . Yes, I like that idea. Here is where I shall put my drabbles! Yay. Thanks for reading, Kit**

A/A/N: [another author's note :^)] This piece takes place right after the Rescue in ToC, when Abby hugs Ziva. Ziva/Abby Friendship

Of Home and Friendship, Happiness and Hugs

The solidness of another person startles you, yet, oddly, the sudden contact is welcome. So you let your chin rest on the friendly shoulder, your body relaxing against another. The kind smell of soap and cleanliness is a relief to your nose, the faint aroma of peppermint toothpaste and lavender laundry detergent comforting. Soft cotton brushes against your neck and hands, soothing to your skin. A faint smile ghosts across your lips and you relish in the foreignness of the feeling. Since when did a simple hug, a mere embrace of friendship, ignite such happiness? Happiness. Now that was a beautiful concept. Happiness and friendship and hugs and the warm safe feeling of home and belonging. Niceness and kindness and love. _Love_. You realize you missed that, to be honest, you never really realized you even _had_ that –never even aware you were missing it. Home and friendship, happiness and hugs. Love and family. Yes, you deicide, it was good to be found, better to be wanted, amazing to be _loved_.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: If I owned NCIS . . . .

Daddy's Girl

It was the orchestra of car horns that spurred him onward, caused his foot to press down on the accelerator just a little bit more . . . . How ironic, he mused, speeding in the fast lane. . . . His situation, however, was dire, a matter maybe of not life or death, but most definitely a few tears and disappointed words would be spared.

He nearly missed his exit, making a sharp and rather dangerous veer, provoking another barrage of angry honking. Thankfully, his destination was right off the ramp, the big brick building illuminated in the darkening dusk. He had a standoff with a big SUV for a parking space in the overcrowded lot, made it halfway to the entrance before he remembered the vital rectangle of paper that would get him through the door, had to sprint back to his car and retrieve what was left before he recalled the bouquet wrapped in cellophane and promptly had to return to the vehicle for a third time.

When he had finally gained entrance, breezing through the lobby, and wrenching open the heavy wood door, he was dismayed to find the house lights had already been dimmed and the undercurrent of voices had ceased. However the velveteen curtain was still a wall of crimson before the stage, which was promising. And if he stood on his toes, he could see virtually the entire floor of seats, full to the maximum occupation with anticipating audience members –though he was only searching the sea of heads for one in particular . . . . There. Middle row, left section, toward the aisle. He made a beeline for that specific area, eliciting several irritating glares as he passed in front of four or so cameras, being blinded by a flash in the process.

He slid in the vacant seat marked G2, his heart hammering.

"You are late," came a husky acknowledgement his shoulder, warm breath caressing his cheek.

He leaned his head down, his lips near her ear. "But I made it."

"Barely."

"But I made it," he repeated, Cheshire grin firmly in place. "Did she notice?"

A pause, just because she was torturing him, letting him suffer momentarily with the thought of being discovered . . . . "No."

"Good."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair fanning over his sleeve and he sighed, content. The curtain parted slowly and eight little figures, all clothed in pink tulle.

"I am glad you made it," she murmured, her voice soft.

"Hey," he whispered back, "I wouldn't miss our little ballerina's recital for the world, Ziva."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Just a little companion scene to 7.12 Flesh and Blood. Tony and Ziva discuss the lovely Prince Sayif and Tony's father.**

**DISCLAIMER: Nothing is owned by me.**

Flesh and Blood

I looked around cautiously, the bullpen was quiet, but silence signifies very little it seems. McGee had disappeared forty-five minutes ago, taking sanctuary in Abby's lab. Gibbs had vanished as well, down to visit Ducky or retrieve more coffee perhaps -I knew he had yet to go home, his lamp was still casting a yellow glow across his desk. I had not seen Tony in several hours, but that was understandable. The man was babysitting his father, who, judging by the characteristics the two share, I could imagine was an uneasy feat.

I rose from my desk, glancing over the partition behind my filing cabinet. The coat was clear, the other work stations vacant; no voices, no people, no signs of life. The heavy drone of computers was unapparent and the surrounding lights were dim. I was completely and utterly alone.

I skirted around my desktop, moving stiffly to the neutral area between the cluster of desks. My lower back protested in its tiredness and my feet were sore from the wear of the day, but I ignored this, thinking of other things besides the discomfort. . . .

I bent down, grasping at my toes, counting slowly to ten before straightening up. Rising up on my toes, I reached my arms over my head, feeling my joints pop. . . . I dropped down again, rocking back on my heels, sliding into a basic position used in beginner ballet. I had not danced in a long time, though I did work the poses into my stretching routines on occasion.

"Doing ballet, Zee-vah?"

I flinched, still securely balanced, unaware that he had returned. I returned to a normal stance, turning to face the familiar countenance of my partner. "No," I said coolly, absently tucking my hair behind my ear.

Tony shrugged indifferently, leaning back against my desk, folding his arms across his chest. He offered me a half smile, watching me with his head cocked to the side. I watched back before growing bored and, deciding I was safe in his presence, recommenced my previous activity.

"So," he asked conversationally, "what did his royal highness do to invoke your death threats, Miss David?"

"I did not threaten Prince Sayif," I defended. I was only guilty of considering it.

"You may not have threatened him to his face, but you did threaten him."

I frowned. "This is true," I amended, recalling the conversation I shared with him and Gibbs earlier.

"So what'd he do?"

I narrowed my eyes at the memories. "Besides leering at my butt? He offered to show me the 'family jewels,' whispered obscenities with his bodyguards -in Arabic, of course - are you getting the picture?"

Tony's brow furrowed, "So you weren't impressed?"

"He is a chauvinist. What more is there to say?"

"Uh . . . .Should I go beat him up?"

I suppressed a smile, "Assuming you can get through his body guards?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, Cheshire grin firmly in place, "Anything to avenge your good name." When I didn't respond, he added, "Because you are worth it, you know."

I bit my lower lip, schooling my features, deciding to analyze this statement later. Instead I opted to interrogate him, asking, "So, how is your father?"

He froze, jaw stiffening visibly. He took a deep breath, replying vaguely, "Fine."

"You are a lot like him," I acknowledged, coming to stand beside him, resting my left hip against the edge of my desk.

"Besides the name?"

I pretended to mull this over for a few heartbeats, when in actuality I had been considering the similarities all day. "You both are charmers, very good with women. . . . . The sense of humor is uncanny." I stole a glance at his expression, one of feigned neutrality, continuing, "However, I also noted some differences. . . . "

"Oh?"

"Oh yes," I said nodding sagely, "You see, your father seems . . . . Disconnected. He wants nothing to do with anything, anyone. He is a no ties type of person."

Tony snorted, "Says she to the man with a list commitment issues a mile long."

I shoved off my desk, coming to stand before him, toe to toe, crowding his space. He peered down at me warily, our faces inches apart as I brought myself to full height. "That is not the same. Your father is like that because he is selfish and cowardly and only concerned about himself. You are like that because you worry about everyone involved, you are like that because you are a good person."

"You give me to much credit."

"Your father leaves people when he thinks he can find something better . . . . The difference, Tony? You're still here." And I slapped him lightly on his cheek, smirking as I retreated to the other side of my desk, beginning to shepherd necessary things into my bag, ready to call it a day.

"Hey, Ziva?"

"Hmm?"

"Love your hair."


	4. OkayHedgehog

**A/N: These two are dedicated to M E Wofford for being so kind to me and leaving me lovely reviews on everything. You are extremely appreciated (as is everyone). Thank you tons, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

OKAY 291

It is dark and you are scared and angry and just so lost. The night air is cool and nips your dry cheeks, raking invisible fingers through your tangled hair and clawing violently at you clothes. But you don't care at all because you're pacing and quaking in your emotion as feelings you can't name -don't even recognize- course through your veins. Bitter tears sting your eyes so you blink them back in black resentment, stoically refusing to let them flow . . . .

You've lost feeling in your skin by the time you reach an impasse with yourself. So now you stand still, arms folded tightly across your chest, like you're trying so very hard to keep yourself from shattering. You're already in shards, sharp ones that you have to avoid so you won't cut yourself. And you're numb with damp eyes and chapped lips. . . .

You hear him behind you, watch him materialize from the shadows and you want to ignore him but you've already hurled yourself at him. Your fists pound his chest and your feet assault his shins and for some bizarre reason he lets you. And when your flurry of half-hearted punches slow, he wraps his fingers around your fragile wrists, forming manacles, and then he pulls you to his chest, locking you there with strong arms encircled around you. You automatically stiffen, channeling your inner cacti, but he refuses to relinquish his hold on you, so you relax, burying your face in his sweater and cry.

And he rubs your back, soft, gentle circles, and murmurs consolations into your hair and whispers soothing nothings into your ear and you finally believe him when he says that everything is okay. . . .

HEDGEHOG 88

His hand shoots out, his palm silencing the blaring alarm. He sits up, groaning, rolling back his shoulders, extending his arms over his head. She stirs next to him, bringing herself to a sitting position. She stifles a yawn, then bursts out in laughter. Bemused and curious, he studies her as she collapses back onto the mattress, shaking with mirth. He prods her, inquiring what the hilarity of their situation is. Tears leak down her cheeks as she gasps, "Your hair! You -look - - - -like - a - _hedgehog!" _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello there! Here is an extension of Mother's Day and the Tiva love that was woefully absent. Just a little bit off fluff! Let me know how it is, if you like, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS nor am I affiliated in anyway with PandaExpress, Akira Kurosawa, Frank Sinatra, or FedEx. However, FedEx is not featured in this story.**

Sinatra, Cinema, Chopsticks, and Japanese Culture 

The bathroom was a humid fog of shower steam and the soft aroma of therapeutic candles. Sonorous notes in a sultry alto drowned the constant tattoo of pounding water as lyrics to Sinatra's _Moonlight Serenade _interwove in the moist air.

Suddenly the water cut off and only Ol' Blue Eyes reigned.

"_The stars are aglow._

"_And tonight how their light sets me dreaming._

"_My love, do you know?_

"_That your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?_

"_I bring you, and I sing a moonlight serenade."_

There was a faint clank emitted from the kitchen, the sound muffled by the closed bathroom door. She very nearly went for her knife, still resting among the shed clothes discarded in a pile on the floor, but when her intruder cleared his throat, recognition dawned and she relaxed. Wringing her dark hair out over the sink, she wrapped herself protectively (more from the cool of the apartment than the man in her kitchen) in a plush towel and ventured into her bedroom in search of fresh clothes before greeting her "guest."

"_Let us stay 'til break of day_

"_In love's valley of dreams._

"_Just you and I, a summer sky,_

"_A heavenly breeze, kissin' the trees."_

His deep baritone filled the apartment, finishing her abandoned song, the familiar sound of his voice reaching her ears the moment she opened her bedroom door. She padded into the living room, socked feet silent on the carpet, watching him in amusement as he puttered around her kitchen.

His back was to her, something nuking in the microwave, the spicy perfume of orange chicken and chow mein reminding her she was yet to have dinner. The microwave dinged and he opened it with a flourish, still channeling Sinatra:

"_So don't let me wait._

"_Come to me tenderly in the June night._

"_I stand at your gate._

"_And I sing you a song in the moonlight._

"_A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade."_

"Bravo, Tony."

He whirled around, oven-mitted hand holding a steaming bowl of noodles Shakespearean style, narrowing his ocean eyes and pointing at her with his free hand in accusation. "Sneaking up on people is not nice, Ziva," he scolded lightheartedly, bestowing upon her his patent grin. She reciprocated the gesture with a smirk of her own, slinking into the kitchen to investigate his offering of takeout.

Standing next to him, hip to hip, she slid her gaze sideways, watching him out of her peripheral vision, countering his chastisement with, "You are the one that is breaking and entering, DiNozzo."

"Unh unh unh," he tsked, reaching for two plates and handing her one. "It isn't breaking and entering if I use a key."

"So it's just . . . . Entering?"

"Hey, now, I brought dinner."

She mulled this over momentarily before acquiescing. "True. . . But," she pointed out, following him into the living room and taking up her end of the couch, "I thought you were at you movie screening thing, no?"

"No."

"Apparently. Why is that again?"

He regarded her totally lost before asking slowly, "Why what?"

"Why 'no'?"

Another confused expression before he launched himself off the couch, exclaiming, "Wine-oh!" And proceeding into the kitchen where he retrieved a half empty bottle of white wine and two glasses.

Now Ziva donned the confused expression, declaring, "You are making no sense."

Tony returned to the living room, Ziva sinking slightly as he settled back against the couch cushions, offering her a half-filled glass and another glorious smile. "I'm making no sense? Let's start over: How was your day, dear?"

Ziva took a sip, lips quirking upward at his antics, playing along by answering, "Fine. And yours?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Yep."

"So why are you not at your movie screening?"

"Ah, Akira Kurosawa. One of the greatest contributors to foreign film, in my humble opinion. . . . . Yes, well, I decided that why go watch a screening of Bodyguard alone when I could just bring the DVD to my favorite ninja's place and watch it with her?" he flashed her another winning smile, manipulating his chop sticks to procure a piece of chicken.

She shook her head in disbelief, taking a bite of her egg roll. She was in mid-chew when she paused, regarding him with a amused smirk.

"What?" he asked through a mouth full of chow mein.

She shrugged delicately, "Oh, nothing."

They continued with their meal, clearing away the dishes before Tony hit play and Kurosawa's One Wonderful Sunday came to life on the once dark screen.

"This is not the Bodyguard," Ziva acknowledged as subtitles and alien music began to play and she slid closer to her partner. He lifted his arm, draping it around her waist, allowing her better access to snuggle against his side. "Yeah, well, this one is a little lighter."

"Lighter?"

"We all need light in our life, Zee."

She fell silent, still pressed into him, her head dropping to his shoulder as conversation was dominated by the reading of subtitles -of the many languages she spoke, Japanese was not one of them.

But this didn't matter. Because she was curled against her partner (her light and bodyguard if she was to be cliché). And echoes of a Sinatra Moonlight duet lingered in the room and the smell of Chinese food still hung in the air, faint beneath the sandalwood of Ziva's shampoo. And Japanese cinema filled the apartment with quick dialect and flashing subtitles. And Tony's breath in her ear and his chest rising and falling beside her. Comfortingly like home.

* * *

P.S. The song is Frank Sinatra's _Moonlight Serenade._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Something that I found lurking on my laptop that was, surprisingly, finished. So here we have it. My guess is that I wrote it way back during the very begining of Season 7 (has anyone realized we only have, like, four episodes left?!). It isn't great, but it's okay, I suppose. Obviously not strong enough to stand alone, so I just stuck it here in my random papers! Leave a review if you want, (or if you don't want, that's fine too). Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, but a very fat calico cat that just flipped (literally) off my bed because apparently, she had a bad dream (or sudden spaz attack, whichever).**

THE HEALING PROCESS

I have found that I am unable to sit still for very long until my muscles become stiff and my back cramps up in knots. So I shift positions, uncrossing and recrossing my legs, tapping my fingers in a rhythmless tattoo. I have to stand up every so often and stretch, move around, take a brief stroll outside.

The cold D.C. air has always been different to the dry, arid heat of my homeland and I have tolerated it well these past years, but recently I have actually enjoyed the crispness, appreciating a climate opposite to the desert. However, the cold hurts my bones, makes my joints ache and pop like brittle glass.

I am running again, every morning, most mornings, settling into the lost familiarity of the routine. . . . I am unable to run as far as I once did, and my pace is slower, my strides compensating for my sore feet and ankles. . . .But I run anyway, savoring the fresh air, the niceness of the area where my new apartment is, the freedom.

The discovery of loose fitting garments came not a moment too soon. I have developed a fondness for soft cottons and smooth silks that fan away from my body, skimming over the faint scars that trek across my skin. The flowing tunics avoid aggravating the phantom wounds that possess a sensitive stronghold over my body. . . .

I sing more. Happy, senseless melodies conjured up from thin air. I sing in every language I know, blending my tongues accidentally, on purpose, just because I can.

I never was patient enough to take bubble bath, instead preferring quick showers that never exceeded ten minutes . . . . It is no longer so as I have rapidly and easily slid into the habit of long, steaming showers, the hot water massaging my tired back, relaxing my tense shoulders. It was a luxury. A luxury I would never again take for granted -or use sparingly (I have been deprived enough in this lifetime).

I am allowed to dance, yet the doctors were insistent that I not wear my toe-shoes. So I settle for socks and beginner exercises because, frankly, they are easier to perform. But I do dance, spinning cautiously, moving gingerly, enjoying the sensation of freeness.

I love to cook, singing as I dice and slice and chop, my voice adding to the hiss and boil of various dishes. It is palliative.

I catch myself flashing back sometimes, other days I wake up exhausted from insomnia. PTSD. The medication helps with the stress and anxiety and nightmares, and sometimes I wonder if my teammates need the prescriptions instead of me, with their constant tiptoeing around, walking on seashells, I think.

. . . . . I have embraced my own humanity and the knowledge of my mortality has never been clearer. I am in the process of forgiving and redefining words of trust and family and home. I am fallible and vulnerable -there are no such things as invincibility and immunity. . . . As I child, I scoffed at the fairytales and happily ever after -things that spoke of knights in shining armor and true love were pitiful lies . . . . And then I met those knights of lore, who came to my rescue, armor dusty, sweaty, and bruised, to save my life and return my broken pieces to the only home I'd ever known, to put me back together again. Like a family.

I have found that I am capable of being loved, feeling love, and loving in return.


	7. Of Comfort

**A/N: Well, I certainly have a burning question from last night's episode: What the heck was Tony's issue?!?!?!? *Takes deep breath, composes self* However, I have found Tiva fodder within the dark folds of Obsession and intend to twist it to my advantage :^). (Un)Fortunately, I have to write a prologue to explain how Tony and Ziva got over the whole 'Psycho Stalker' phase of DiNozzo. And this is the product of such. It is short, so I'm going to put it under my Random Papers, but the bigger, lighter fic will probably be a stand alone. That being said, keep the peace until next time, much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. It's sad, but it's a fact.**

He sighs, leaning heavily against the balcony railing, filling his lungs with cool night air. Cars rush by on the street below, smears of red and white lights, moving too fast, always hurried. His thoughts are racing in his head, stirring and mixing and fleeing before his brain can even begin to fathom their murkiness. He's lost in his headspace and, right now, it is not the safest place to be.

"Tony?" a voice, soft and familiar, floats from behind him.

So he turns his head and sees her leaning in the doorway, gentle lamplight spilling across the concrete, illuminating her from behind like a halo. She cocks her head to the side, regarding him with the scrutiny of the federal investigator she is, her hair falling to the side still coiled in its loose plait. He watches her bit her lower lip in brief hesitation before stepping toward him with conviction. He looks away and soon finds her arms wrapping around his waist, the warmth of her pressing against his back comforting.

She lays her cheek on his arm and the smell of cinnamon and honey fills his nose. And her presence is so very solid and alive and it permeates the haze that has besieged him, scatters the poisonous thoughts away. He can feel the steady beat of her heart through her t-shirt and through his dress-shirt and she is so alive. He is alive.

"I'm sorry, Ziva," he whispers, voice vibrating through his back.

And he feels her nod, feels her quiet reply, "I know." _Rule #8. Screw Rule #8._

"I messed up. Big time. Several times. I'm so sorry, Ziva."

She sighs, running her fingertips along his side, soothingly. "I know, Tony. I know. You just-"

"Went all psycho stalker crazy?" his voice is hollow sounding in his ears.

She shook her head in disagreement. "I was going to say that you care."

"I broke Rule #10. Again," he confesses, nearly silent.

"Because you care, Tony. That is nothing to fault you for," she tells him.

He shifts his weight, still staring ahead into the distance, still not meeting her eyes. "I broke it last June, when I started looking for you. I just . . . ."

"Cared about me." She squeezes his waist, presses her face into his shirt.

"I loved you," he said softly. "And I didn't even know Dana. I just . . . ."

They quieted for a while, watching the traffic below, the stars overhead. The moon was just a minute sliver, but still seemed so big in the silence.

Eventually, he rotates slowly, pressing his back against the railing, pulling Ziva to his chest. One hand settles in the small of her back, the other fingering the end of her braid. She rested against him, comforting him as best she can before craning her head back to look into his eyes. And she sees confusion and sadness swirling in the green, but there is a spark that meets her gaze and she knows her Tony is just under the surface. And she reaches up to cradle his face in her palm, rubs his cheek with her thumb.

And soon enough she's brushing away tears and murmuring calming reassurances as he slowly breaks down.


	8. Irreplaceable

**A/N: Hello my friends! I have a quick little snippet extracted from Enemies Foreign, somewhere between the bathroom scene with Ziva and Liat but before Ziva's talk with her father (most likely takes place directly after the bathroom scene). Anyway, I hope to write something centering around the Broken Arrows and both Enemies Foreign and Domestic. Until then, much love and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: D. All the above.**

Irreplaceable

She isn't surprised that he finds her –or that he even bothered looking for her. And it wasn't like she was hiding –not really.

"I was replaced," she states in lieu of a greeting. She's standing in the stairwell, leaning in the corner with her hands behind her back, her face tilting to look from the ceiling to him. Her eyes are dark and guarded and dry, her face closed off, emotions indiscernible. And it's been a while since she's been like this.

"I've been looking for you," he says in reply, an attempt to lighten the situation as he pauses on the bottommost step, several feet away from her and her corner.

"You found me."

He nods, rocking back on his heels, staring directly at her, agreeing that, "Yes I did."

And it's almost as if the triviality of the conversation shatters her carefully composed pretense because suddenly she asks tightly, "Why are you here, Tony?" And her voice holds that wavering quality, the one that threatens to break but never quite does.

He steps down so they are on level ground without him encroaching upon her personal space. "I'm here," he says with a soft confidence, "because you need me here." And the bluntness of his answer –one she didn't expect to begin with- startles her.

"I was replaced," she repeats mechanically, grasping at her fleeting stoicism, but it slips through her fingers easily.

He blinks at her before countering slowly, "No, you weren't."

She supplies a very unladylike snort, challenging, "Oh? Then explain Liat."

"You aren't replaceable."

And with what can only qualify as sadness lurking in her words, she refutes softly, "It does not appear that way, Tony."

"Well it is!" And they both are surprised at the force of his response, his apparent offense manifesting in his raised voice that echoes around the stairwell. "You aren't replaceable," he continues at a lower decibel, taking a step toward her, "I know this for a fact –I've tried."

"Wh-"

"When do you think? That summer, when you were gone, we tried –I tried- to replace you and it didn't work. You aren't replaceable. Period."

"McGee-"

"Needs a major brain filter. She's not the new Ziva, okay? _She is not you_." At this point he's standing in front of her, nearly toe to toe, his hands grasping her forearms as he stares down at her pointedly.

"Tony-" she starts and he can't tell if it's a warning or another feeble argument, but he interrupts her regardless.

"Ziva, please. Please. Just . . . . don't, okay? Just stay."

She arches an eyebrow at the ambiguous plea, asking confusedly, "Was I going somewhere?"

"Preferably not."

"I think not," she assures quietly, bestowing upon him a small, private smile.

"Don't doubt yourself," he whispers earnestly. "We need you here –your family needs you here . . . . I need you here."

"Thank you, Tony," she murmurs when he releases his hold on her and she smiles up at him again. He leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead before stepping back.

"Anytime," he tells her with a wink. "Anytime."


End file.
